


Electric Sixxx

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Usual Trope With a Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, concerned John won't be able to pull off a very specific persona, gets the surprise of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Electric Sixxx

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KuroBakura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroBakura/gifts).



> Let me know in the comments whether or not I should tack on a smut chapter. <3 <3

 

 

 

 

                                                               Based on THIS(credit to whomever made this gif because holy shit)

                                                                                          

 

Sherlock was concerned.

 

Not that he normally wasn't. The entire planet was in such a state that caring about individuals was too exhausting. He liked to think that he was just going through the motions, that doing so allowed him more time for the pursuit of the basic truth he so desperately needed to remain an active part of the world. The unmitigated farce of it all was what mostly kept his addiction active. At least when he was high, he wouldn't have to deal with people... _pretending_  everything all the time. Everything was the absolute truth to the user. To themselves, they _were_  more attractive, more charming, seeing a dragon that breathed violet fire. And, but for that one incident when someone had slipped something into his plain cola and he luckily only came out of thinking he could fly with a twisted ankle, evaporated clothing, and a cross older brother, he was very little danger to himself or others. And no one was pretending. Whether or not that was attributed to his penchant for imbibing alone remained to be seen.

 

But now he _cared_. He had _friends_  to look after as, their association with him now actually did put them in danger. Dead or alive, it seemed. He was better off when his only real friend was the drugs. They were always there and they didn't pretend and their impending destruction, while it would be disappointing, it wouldn't cause him to fake his own death in order to save them. The whole thing caused him to make a disgusted sound.

 

"Did you say something, or were you just talking to yourself again?" John snapped him out of his revelry, calling through a crack in the bathroom door as Sherlock sat staring into his microscope, his mind going a hundred miles an hour on a hundred different subjects. Most of them were trying to bury the one thought, the possible progression of John's bathroom routine, the faces he made shaving in the mirror, the way he swiped at the back of his neck when beads of water from his hair ran down it, tickling him.

 

"What? No."  

 

"It'll be fine, Sherlock. I won't embarrass you." Then, under his breath, "Nothing bloody does." He heard John click on his electric razor. He would have to trim everything down before shaving properly, Sherlock figured. The state of his friend when he returned from that awful survival training mission he did as a favour to Mycroft was appalling. He looked like a cave man someone had stuffed into khakis and a horrible jumper. His normally neatly cropped hair seemed to be growing from everywhere on his entire head except for his eyeballs. When Sherlock helpfully informed him of his horrid condition, the cheeky bastard grinned, teeth bright ivory peeking through ashen blond wire, and replied that he'd had a chance to clean up more, but he didn't take it in favour of seeing the exact expression Sherlock wore when he turned up looking like that.

 

"I'm glad no one could tell it was you underneath all of that, because _then_  I actually would be embarrassed. I take back everything I ever said about the mustache." John's laughter echoed against the tiles and Sherlock stormed out of the kitchen to throw himself haughtily into his chair. The man had no right to do all those things he did that made Sherlock feel. Emotions were so very useless to him and he wished they could be removed so that he could get on with The Work. But, no, he had to spend precious brain power being angry about John needing air after an argument turning into a mission for Mycroft in a classified location. He had to further worry about John's safety regardless of the fact that it was meant to be a benign assignment. The worrying bit lead to him breaking his protest fast, as he began snacking on leftover takeaway as he was rotted from the inside by watching some horrid television program rerun. The rather large, homely Scottish woman with all the cats had at least _some_  singing talent, despite the inane popular drivel they had her covering.

 

When John texted him that afternoon to the effect of he would be home within two hours, Sherlock had accepted a case, showered, shaved, and gotten into one of his nicest suits before he even realized what he was doing. Again, out of objection to John's absence, he didn't bother tidying up. However, when John showed up, he gave a cursory look about the place, sapphire eyes twinkling with expectations being fulfilled regarding what state the flat would be in upon his return. He'd said, "Well, at least it's still here." His eyes had lingered a moment longer on Sherlock's outfit as Sherlock berated his appearance, before John just asked about the case and went about tidying up whilst listening.

 

Finally, all Sherlock could do was take up a book he'd been reading, a German volume regarding brain chemistry, and wait for John to be finished. As he heard John exit the kitchen door and take the steps up to his room two at a time, Sherlock loudly reiterated that he would have to dress appropriately for a nightclub, emphasis on the 'No jumpers or knit ties' rule he implemented on occasion. John didn't respond, only pausing to hear him out before continuing on his way. Sherlock was pretty sure he heard John's eyes roll. He was well into his book when John came back down, Sherlock deciding to linger on his page for maximum dramatic effect when he began his tirade on all the things John would get wrong.

 

"Is that what _you're_  wearing?" John had the nerve to ask. Sherlock slowly lowered his book, lips slightly parted in preparation to deliver a properly scathing reply but it was caught and died screaming in his throat.

 

The deep blue button up was open most of the way, revealing sparse, honeyed chest hair. Two long necklaces made up of coloured beads worked into hemp played peek-a-boo with the flaps of his top. Fitted dark denim jeans, that looked as expensive as Sherlock's actually were, hugged hips narrowed by all the exercise John got running the streets with him. The icing on the cake was his hair. His entire head, to be more accurate. The years and stress had thoroughly floured what was once mostly blond, leaving the locks, neatly cut, but longer than he ever let it get since getting out of the military, mostly snow and silver, streaked with gold. The beard, now impeccably thinned and styled, was more of a light brown with the same gold threads running through it. It gave his face a much more youthful texture. He looked ten to twelve years under his age, but, surprisingly, not as if he were trying to do so. The effortlessness of it all was what struck Sherlock the most. Even John's nervous habit of lip manipulation, pursing, licking, biting... had become an accessory, its current incarnation more of a manifestation of assessment than anxiety. There was nothing anxious about him, unless the 'anxious' was followed by the words 'to get you to beg for it'. Even his question held no hesitation, no hint of uneasiness.

 

"What do you think, Sherlock?"

 

What did he think? Where should he begin? How outlandish John looked? How he resembled some common chat-up artist(that did extremely well)? How the way John said his name usually made something tickle in the pit of his belly no matter the situation or tone, but this particular pronunciation revealed exactly what that something was?

 

It was desire, is what it was. Pure, unadulterated W _ant_. Sherlock Wanted to muss the carefully combed hair. He Wanted to drag the neatly clipped fingernails of both hands back and fourth through the overgrown scruff. He Wanted to compare the textures of the hair on his head, face, chest, and...  

 

"Where's your... your suit?" Sherlock finally managed to push out.

 

"I thought this would be more appropriate."

 

"Explain," he demanded. Because how dare John successfully make him question his own fashion choices!

 

"Well, it's a night club, isn't it? Part of what we had to do in the beginning of the training was be able to deploy despite the barriers of being impaired. So the lads... well there were a couple of ladies who could put most of them down without a second thought I knew..." John trailed off, recalling something pleasant for a moment and Sherlock barely repressed a sneer. "Anyways, we all went on an all-night bender. They dressed me for the occasion and... well it worked." John described the scene without batting an eye. Of course he did. He was the calmest in the face of danger, and there was real danger that Sherlock would explode with sudden realizations and panic over what to do with the information. John even stood differently. He wasn't the ever-present soldier at the moment, he was...

 

This must have been John "Three-Continents" Watson.

 

He was unmistakable. An unlikely predator of willing prey. Sherlock refused outright to admit to himself that he was extremely jealous. This John Watson could have convinced those women to come to his bed with no problem. All at once even, if he was of a mind. Sherlock had no rules for his own sexuality. He liked what he liked regardless of the genitals. But he'd abandoned it to celibacy long before in order to properly focus on The Work. But this John Watson, having before just poked at Sherlock's sexual appetites through the keyhole of the chest inside the cage he'd locked his libido in, had broken the lock on the chest, the carnality now straining against the bars of the cage, snarling. This was much more than a bit not good. He had to do something to counter this before the cage door was weakened enough to break as well. Then where would they be? He'd most likely be friendless once more. Well except for the drugs.

 

"Fine," was all he replied before bolting to his feet and marching into his bedroom, leaning back up against the door after resolutely shutting it.

 

Challenge accepted.

 

He disrobed quickly, not even bothering to hang up what he'd taken off and pulled on his own custom dark jeans, his body built somewhat narrower than John's, if not much leaner anymore. He had to have a collar to keep open at the throat, and so chose an expensive polo-style top of which he had several colours. He made sure to choose the forest green one to enhance the paleness of his skin and take full advantage of his heterochromia. It fit like a glove. He called further attention to the throat he caught many an interested person repeatedly glancing at by donning a round silver pendant impressed with a black stone hung from a leather thong. His shoes were just this side of combat boots, and he finished in the bathroom by capitalizing on yet another of his features many harped on. He took a bit of product, rubbing it on both hands, and artfully tousled his normally carefully tamed curls before washing his hands.

 

"Come along, John," he called as he moved swiftly through the sitting room as he completed the look with a black leather bomber as opposed to his now more recognizable Belstaff. 

 

His keen hearing picked up a murmured, "Right." following him before John's footsteps did.

 

 

***

The entrance was literally underground, an unassuming metal door leading into the bowels of an unassuming building which housed a fancy restaurant, a large office, and several expensive flats.

 

"Looks like a speakeasy," John commented. Sherlock spent most of the cab ride over there trying to get himself under control, but then John would... say something and all of his hard work was dashed like so much delicate glass. In turn, Sherlock said nothing until they were at the top of the stairs.

 

"You lead us in," Sherlock ordered.

 

"What? Why me?" Sherlock steeled himself with a deep breath and looked back into eyes as wide and deep as the ocean.

 

"Why do you insist on asking stupid questions?" _And making me feel stupid emotions?_

"Fine. Whatever." He waited until he'd rung the bell, completely silent from the outside. It must have been heavily sound-proofed. He waited until the last moment to whisper into John's (rather good-smelling) ear. 

 

"The password is 'Johnlock'" Sherlock saw the extreme puzzlement but, champion that he was, John had already donned his 'in charge' expression as an eye-level panel was slid open.

 

"Johnlock," he stated clearly but quietly, infusing a bit of his former captain's rank as he'd done at Baskerville ages ago. It didn't help Sherlock's inconvenient yearnings in the least. 

 

The door-keeper was massive, as security for nightclubs tended to be, and he wasn't alone. The door was shut securely behind them so that they were trapped in a small, almost air tight foyer being groped by two other rather large guards, one male and one female. She clearly identified as a lesbian, according to her tattoos and tee-shirt, yet Sherlock watched in barely contained awe as she mechanically felt John's crotch for any hidden weapons and he only had to wink at her for her to break out in a seldom-used smile. So, bisexual then. Or John-sexual. He had an absurd urge to offer her an 'Amen' but controlled himself. Deemed fit to enter, another button was pushed. A voice over the intercom asked the password again and it was given by the woman. When the inner door opened, all of the sound, the screeching electronic highs as well as the belly busting baselines, combined with a seizure-inducing light show hit them, literally and figuratively, full in the face. The words 'Electric Sixxx' shouted at them in varicoloured neon, or from under a black light from every possible surface. John only arched an eyebrow at him. He returned it and they smirked at each other. Sherlock's heart skipped and he immediately willed it back to resting, always a little faster than usual when on a case.

 

Yet another guard left his colleague at the door to lead them to a VIP booth, cleverly built so that one could be heard over the music when in conversation without having to speak too loudly. He was more than happy to demonstrate this feat of acoustic manipulation by asking John what he wanted to drink, and taking in his expression when he realized he'd heard him clearly.

 

"You know what I like," John answered, lifting his chin in the direction of the drag queen server who'd just become present, and stretching his arms across the back of the seat behind Sherlock's head. John punctuated his air of complete relaxation by resting the heel of his right foot on the table. Sherlock tore his eyes from him long enough to order a pint of John's favourite lager and a refreshing cucumber beverage for himself that he could make last for hours if he wished. "I assumed we were supposed to be a couple when I first got a look at the place," John mentioned directly into his ear, as he cleverly hid their conversation from possible listening devices. It made a slight shiver run down his spine. "What does 'Johnlock' even mean, anyway?" Sherlock really hoped his expression was as at least neutral as he was attempting to make it, John was playing his part well, slightly nuzzling the ear into which he spoke.

 

"I've... no idea whatsoever. I saw it on one of the many forums and gave it to the owner of this establishment as our special password. Something about 'ships' and 'partners' or something. Perhaps it's a pirate thing." John's expression was that of complete understanding with an undertone of something else. Wonder, perhaps? Sherlock disliked not knowing something, especially about John. There was a hint of his usual awe that surfaced when Sherlock performed some trifling feat of logic, but that wasn't quite it. Whatever it was, John was seriously thinking about something. And doing that thing with his lips again whilst staring into Sherlock's face, wasn't helping Sherlock think at all.

 

"Probably an arse-pirate thing," John leaned in and said, before _nipping Sherlock's earlobe_  and pulling his foot down so the server could set their drinks down. John handed her a twenty pound note and thoroughly ripped his attention from her to settle it back on Sherlock. Sherlock took a larger sip of his drink than he'd originally intended, as did John it seemed. John also tried a sip of Sherlock's, declaring it strangely delicious despite the odd ingredients. Just as Sherlock was reaching his breaking point, where he'd have to flee to the loo for a moment's respite from the animal attraction he was currently experiencing, owner Trevor Jones appeared, looking for all the world like a TV presenter with his crisply tailored bespoke suit(the only person in wearing one that Sherlock had seen), perfectly coiffed and manicured. Sherlock made a mental note to get the contact information of his tailor.

 

Then John really took charge.

 

He did most of the talking, Sherlock taking his cues to murmur into his ear when he had something to ask and playing the perfect support companion. He didn't even miss a beat when Sherlock was referred to as 'Billy', remembering his legal first name was William. John was quite the wonder to observe, putting everything he'd learned combined with everything he already knew into full effect. Even Sherlock was almost convinced that, when they left, it would be in a rush to get him home, into bed, and thoroughly ravished. 

 

Especially when they danced. 

 

Sherlock had already solved the case, but he damn sure was going to indulge this one time. Perhaps if he got a bit of it out of his system through the veil of their disguises, it would be easier for him to release all of the unwelcome thoughts into the ether, never to burden him again.

 

He whispered into John's ear again and, seamlessly, John informed their host that his Billy was bored and wanted to dance. He stood first, helping Sherlock out of his seat with a gentle hand and a promise that, by the end of the night, Jones' case would be closed. They would bill him later. John then allowed Sherlock to lead them to an optimum spot before giving over control again. It was a heady feeling, complete trust. He experienced it in fits and bursts and it was slowly becoming a problem. But, if Sherlock was on a diet, tonight would be his "cheat day" because he would drown himself in the confection that was letting John take over.

 

John danced in a way that had Sherlock completely forgetting that he hated the music. The ex Army doctor moved in a way that staked complete claim on his partner, warning rivals off, and further attracting everyone all at once. John held onto him solidly but non-restrictively, making sure Sherlock was free to move wherever and however he wished whilst being firmly tethered to him. It was frighteningly similar to being high, John's hands on him, bodies moving in sync with each other and the music. Sherlock often turned to press his back against him, as, not only had he not been this hard in nearly a decade, he couldn't quite handle the way John looked at him, in such a way as to continue to have complete authority over him even if they weren't touching.

 

Sherlock even tested him, teasing his exposed neck with the tip of his tongue and grinning, being sure to fill his eyes with sex whenever they were facing each other and not touching. It was the only way he could stay in control of himself. Because, not only did John smell like a hot Summer night in a field, all musk and heat and soft earth, he tasted like pure fornication. It was doing Sherlock's head in.  

 

As part of his character(Sherlock hoped), John warned him to calm down in public or he would be in real trouble. Sherlock of course pushed it, purposely rubbing what he'd been informed by the same 'They' that drove his costume choice, was a rather plush backside deliberately against John's crotch. He was absolutely chastised when John began moving his hips in a slow circle, though still to the beat, clutching at Sherlock's hips so as to keep him anchored in place. Once establishing that Sherlock wasn't to move, he dragged his clever doctor's hands up Sherlock's thighs, barely missing the crotch, up the front of his torso, deliberately not missing his nipples and up the underside of his arms, pulling them up and around the back of his neck. John then set about the sensuous touching and groping of innocent places like his stomach and hips and waist. Sherlock had never been so glad in his life, as he was of the volume and repetitiveness of the music that thoroughly drowned his helpless moans. 

 

That was the last straw as he, as organically as possible, took John's hand and lead him back in the direction of their booth, John taking lead once more as soon as he realized where they were going. Sherlock had him order two more drinks and two shots for them, the message delivered through Trevor who still sat there, a biological woman on either side of him, watching. John tipped the server another twenty for good measure and once more assumed his relaxed posture, Sherlock allowing himself to snuggle in a bit more now.

 

He should have known better than to allow himself to go this far. He was an addict, and his current drug of choice was John Hamish Watson. He just had to figure out how to go directly back to 'normal' and never tell John.

 

 

                                                                          Sherlock's epic shirt and necklace

                                                                         

 

 

                      In my head, the club owner looked exactly like Jimmy Carr(Too much 8 Out of 10 Cats, I think)

 

                                                      

 

 

                   Title(and the name of the bar based on the band of the same name-only 1 'x' though). They are a delight and sing: 

 

                                                                                                     [THIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTN6Du3MCgI)

 

 


End file.
